


Visions of Grishnackh

by besvimelse



Category: Burzum (Band), Mayhem (Band)
Genre: Helvete shenanigans, M/M, One-Sided Attraction, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Varg is an irresistible bratty twink, sexual fantasies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-28
Updated: 2020-11-28
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:27:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27749005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/besvimelse/pseuds/besvimelse
Summary: There's a couple very specific things Varg does that annoy Euronymous.
Relationships: Euronymous | Øystein Aarseth/Varg Vikernes
Kudos: 23





	Visions of Grishnackh

**Author's Note:**

> Was planning on only keeping this one on Rockfic, but...eh, take it. Take my trash.

There's a couple very specific things Varg does that annoy Euronymous. 

Most of the time it's nothing too severe; it's mostly just little things that get to him, like his constant needling about _"when am I getting my money, Øystein,"_ or his track record of scaring customers off with his completely unbidden tirades about esoteric nazism. 

Little things. Stuff he can ultimately put aside in favor of maintaining a (somewhat) stable working relationship with the guy. 

But there is _one_ thing that drives him insane, and it's when he comes into his store in the middle of the day wearing his hair in those stupid, girly pigtail braids. 

It shouldn't bother him. It has absolutely no reason to, and that's where Øystein's frustration begins—it's only as annoying as it is because of how it actually makes him look _cute_.

Varg's not supposed to be cute. Øystein's not supposed to look at him leaning against the displays drinking his Cocio and feel warmth in the pit of his stomach, and he's not supposed to have to make a conscious effort to not stare too long, and he's most certainly fucking not supposed to catch himself casually pondering how it'd feel to pull on those braids from behind...

He grimaces and physically shakes his head, trying to banish the thought from his mind before it mutates further. He has too much to do to be getting sidetracked by something like this—his mind jumps to the fresh stack of label paperwork on his desk with his name quite literally on it—and yet there he sits, leaning on the counter in a defeated slump as he tries to discreetly...for lack of a better word, _watch_ Varg. 

Sure, it does make him feel just the tiniest bit perverted. At the same time, though, it's not like he's coming up behind him and groping him or anything outwardly weird like that—he's _basically_ just keeping an eye on him. Nothing creepy or weird about just trying to make sure he doesn't screw up any of his displays or break anything. Those mannequins were _expensive, dammit_ —it's perfectly rational. 

And it's _still_ not creepy or weird if he maybe sits up a little straighter to get a better look whenever Varg pops his hip out or, Satan willing, bends over to pick something up and gives Øystein a perfect view of his ass...

He scoffs to himself, absent-mindedly fiddling with a pen somebody had left on the counter. 

_This is ridiculous._ Just utterly ridiculous, he's completely aware of it, and yet try as he might, he can't seem to get his thoughts under control. In fact, in all his ruminating, he's even come to a realization—that for every annoying thing there is about Varg, there's something equally desirable about him in the strangest way. 

He doesn't like admitting it, but fuck, it's _true_. He can even think of two or three specific examples right off the top of his head.

Like how he kinda...from a certain angle, in a certain light, looks like a girl. 

Especially from behind—with the pigtails tossed over his shoulders, and the way he moves his body almost gracefully as he slinks around the shop, and that more lithe than lanky frame...scratch that, he _really_ looks like a girl, and Øystein really wishes it wasn't as alluring as it is to him.

_Wonder if he'd moan like a girl..._

_Fuck!_ Once again, after what feels like a few really long seconds lost in thought, he finds himself shaking himself from another stupid, lewd daydream. 

So maybe he is creeping on Varg a little, and if his jeans suddenly feeling a hell of a lot tighter is anything to go by, he's created a bit of a problem for himself in doing so. 

_Great._ He groans under his breath, realizing that he's basically giving himself two options here: either stay at his post and just let this bout of frustration slowly, painfully simmer out...or go and, well, deal with it. 

Just quickly nip it in the bud. Ten minutes, and then back to work. 

He looks back up just in time to catch a glance of Varg reaching up onto one of the shelves to grab an album to put on, his Bathory t-shirt ever so slightly rising up and revealing slivers of that tiny, tantalizingly milky midriff. 

Shamefully enough, he actually feels himself throb in his pants.

_Guess that's that, then._

With a huff and another groan, he stretches his arms behind his back and then heaves himself off the stool. As he's turning around, he yells a quick reminder over his shoulder to Varg to not let anyone steal shit while he's gone. If Varg tells him to fuck off or has any similar back-talk for him, he's blissfully unaware of it—he doesn't even wait for a response before ducking into the room behind him, too caught up in trying to simultaneously conceal his issue and comfortably adjust himself in his pants as he retreats into his office. 

He practically drops into his chair with a sigh, pointedly ignoring the mess of papers and manila folders currently cluttering his desk. As if on cue, he hears the Kreator record Varg's apparently picked out shriek to a start the room over. 

_Hopefully that means he's occupied for now,_ he thinks as he continues to palm himself through his clothes. He gets himself settled in quickly enough ( _ten minutes_ he reminds himself), but as his thumb is inching towards the button of his jeans, he has a thought that gives him pause.

_Am I really about to do this shit right now?_

_In the middle of a work day?_

_In my extremely not-private and easy to access office?_

He thinks about how all that's separating the two of them is about fifteen feet and a goddamn curtain, that there's absolutely nothing stopping Varg from barging in whenever he sees fit (because the man has no boundaries).

It takes him maybe three seconds more to end up deciding that he doesn't even care anymore. 

_Fuck it._

Without wasting any more of his own precious time, he unzips and shoves down his jeans and underwear down to his thighs, thinking with an inward snort that _Hell, maybe it's even a little more exciting this way_. He doesn't really consider himself any kind of exhibitionist, but he can't deny that at least part of the thrill of spontaneously jerking off at work like some kind of horny teenager (i.e. Faust) came from the knowledge of Varg being only a room away and completely oblivious to what was going on. 

_Scandalous._ He spits on his hand and starts to stroke himself fully hard, his mind already back to wandering once again. It doesn't take long for a very specific fantasy to start playing out in his head. 

It starts out realistic enough—Øystein would call Varg into his office, tell him they needed to have a quick talk about something. Varg would be his usual moody self, huffing and puffing all the way and acting like it's all an enormous waste of time, but complying nonetheless—something Øystein had picked up on was that for all his bitching, Varg rarely, if ever, downright refused to do anything he was told to do. 

As much as he tried to hide it, at his core Varg was _very_ eager to please. So eager, perhaps, that if fantasy-Øystein was to get him in the room and then suddenly bend him over his desk and yank his pants to his knees, he wouldn't have even a single word of resistance.

 _Well, probably not that eager._ He chuckles to himself, deciding that it's still a damn nice mental picture. He pumps his cock in his fist faster now, stroking himself in tandem with the next scene his mind's conjured, the fantasy having progressed—by whatever force of magic, within minutes of their "talk", he'd have Varg pinned down right there on his desk, his clothes hastily discarded and bare ass held against Øystein's hips. He thinks about sinking into him, trying to replicate the feeling by squeezing his dick, envisioning the impossible tightness of someone as (very likely) inexperienced in this as him. 

_Shit._ He'd be so tight, almost uncomfortably so. He imagines being fully sheathed inside him, starting to fuck him agonizingly slow, savoring every whine and whimper that'd leave his mouth. He has to bite his lip to keep himself from audibly groaning at the thought.

He imagines Varg trying to hang his head and hide his face, shamefully wailing with every thrust for _more, Euronymous, oh god, I need it harder Euronymous_ in that whiny voice of his, the way he'd arch against him in desperation, and then, the pièce de résistance of the whole fantasy—his hand grabbing a fistful of carefully braided tawny hair, using both braids in one hand as a makeshift rein to pull his head right back up by. If his fantasy version of Varg is starting to get a little hard to believe, he doesn't even care anymore—all he can think about is slamming into Varg while yanking those stupid, _stupid_ pigtails, hard enough that he squeals and it's visibly hurting him. 

His hand speeds up. God, he wants to _shatter_ that huge ego of Varg's into tiny little pieces. He runs his thumb along the head of his dick.

Reduce him to nothing but a blubbering, begging mess. 

_Fuck._ Beads of precum dribble onto his fingers, loosening his grip, making it a little sloppier. 

His thoughts are self-indulgent, so heinously self-indulgent, but he can't stop himself now. He's chasing one after the other, flipping through them like TV channels in his mind. 

On the first channel—Varg face down, ass up, and his cock leaking all over Øystein's desk.   
  
Second—Varg, legs spread, knuckle-deep inside himself, whimpering and crying that he's _Euronymous' good boy,_ that he needs him inside him so bad, that belongs to him and only him. 

And the third—Those godforsaken pigtails, and his release decorating them like ribbons.

The latter thought ends up stemming into some hazy, half-formed fantasy of Varg blowing him under his desk, dried tear tracks and streaks of cum painting his ruddy cheeks and puffy pink lips, and a few more minutes of that is just enough to push him over the edge—he's too far gone to hold back the quiet _shit_ that escapes him as he spills into his hand, his eyes squeezed shut and head thrown back against the back of his chair. 

When he opens his eyes and straightens himself in his seat, of course Varg isn't there under his desk as he was in his mind's eye a couple seconds ago. He's not anywhere Øystein can see and he kind of hopes he's not still in the store either, because now he _really_ doesn't wanna have to look at him when he goes back out to the front. 

Being able to hear the album still playing from the front doesn't have him too hopeful, though. 

With a sigh, he grabs a tissue from his desk and half-assedly cleans himself up. So much for solving his "problem". In fact, he's pretty sure he's just made everything a whole lot _worse_. 

As he's tossing the dirtied tissue in the trash and tucking himself back into his pants, he stands up halfway and leans over his desk, trying to get a peek out through the gap between curtain and wall.

Sure enough, Varg's still there, and oh _joy,_ it looks like he's even gotten himself comfortable with a magazine. With his luck, he definitely planned on spending the rest of the day here instead of being off frolicking through Oslo with Samoth or Snorre or whoever his little best friend of the week is.

"Shit," Øystein mutters. He sinks back into his chair defeatedly. That label paperwork is actually starting to look inviting now. 

He's starting to get the feeling that it's gonna be a long afternoon.


End file.
